


The Doll Maker

by DuschaPendragon



Series: The Game is Afoot: The Adventures of Lannister and Stark [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crime Solving, Detectives, Gen, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuschaPendragon/pseuds/DuschaPendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doll Maker kidnaps children and leaves a look-a-like doll in their place; their heads caved in as a symbol of the child's death that will soon follow.<br/>When Shireen Baratheon is taken from her home, Detective Tyrion Lannister, genius and former alcoholic, is called in to take up the case. He and his sober companion, Dr Sansa Stark, must find this ruthless killer before it is too late to save Shireen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by 'The Balloon Man' case from the TV series Elementary (which I am obsessed with at the moment).

“Have you been up all night?” The question was completely unnecessary. It was easy to see by the enraptured stare; the eyes that would flick from one document and then fixate wholly on the next. That and the fact he was wearing the same clothes he had on when she’d turned in for the night.  
“After you went to bed I came across a file of open serial murders and lost track of time.” He admitted.  
“Came across?” It was more of a statement than a question, but he answered it all the same.  
“Beneath the sofa behind a box of newspaper clippings, then another box of taxation documents. Yes. Came across.” He said the words without drawing breath; still fixated by the documents he had enraptured himself in.  
“Ok, well while you put those away I’m going to go for a run.” Sansa stepped over the debris of files, newspapers and photographs in order to reach the kitchen and grab a glass of water. Tyrion didn’t shift or look up as she passed him. He simply moved on from one document and picked up a photograph which he began to study intently.  
“You aren’t going anywhere.” He muttered, though she wasn’t sure if it was aimed at her or the photograph.  
“I beg your pardon?” She called back, pausing on her trip to the fridge.  
“You aren’t going anywhere. I’m expecting a call. It seems the Doll Maker has struck again.” He said it as though it were no surprise; his voice remained matter-of-fact.  
“The Doll Maker?”  
“I take it you’ve heard of him?” Tyrion stood up, wincing. He moved over to the sofa and picked up his jacket as though ready to go out.  
“Of course I’ve heard of him. His first victim was a kid in my neighbourhood. He lived just down the road from me, but I never spoke to him. Bit of a bully so my brother’s told me to stay away. He’s taken another…nine victims since then?”  
“Ten, as of last night. The report came through on my police scanner around midnight. Shireen Baratheon. Snatched from her bed. The abductors signature look-alike doll with its head caved in was left in her place.” The thought of it made Sansa’s blood go cold. She imagined what it must have been like for the parents when they went to wake their daughter up, only to find a broken doll where their child should have been. Horrible.  
“Wait, so if you’ve only heard it on the police scanner then you haven’t _officially_ been assigned to the case.” Sansa pointed out, abandoning her quest for water and no doubt her morning run.  
“Yet.” Tyrion grinned. There was no essence of tiredness in his face. Already, his mind was on the case. No doubt he was already piecing the information he already had together in order to get a head start on the authorities and, of course, his family.  
“Jaime can’t call me in until my father approves that I am right for the case. My father doesn’t get in until eight thirty, then of course he’ll go to the bathroom followed by a coffee and a croissant which he will deny having eaten if anyone asks, despite crumbs being visible on his suit collar. That means he won’t get to his desk until approximately eight thirty-six. Therefore he should be calling me right about…”  
The phone began to ring.  
“Now.”  

Tyrion groaned inwardly at the sight of the two blonds leaning nonchalantly against the police car. “What’s _she_ doing here Jaime? You know I work better without her.” Tyrion didn’t even bother to look up at them; he simply carried on past towards where he could hear the commotion happening.  
“I know, but I thought it would be more fun this way.” He could hear the grin in Jaime’s voice as he and Cersei fell in behind him and Sansa.  
“Afraid I’ll show you up little brother?” Cersei hissed, irritated by their brotherly banter.  
“On the contrary sweet sister, I’m afraid you’ll hold me back.” He shot back, walking as fast as possible; aware of the long-legged beings around him.  
“Why must you bring your sober companion to every case? Are you afraid you are going to relapse? Again.” Tyrion looked around him; his sister’s words reducing to a dull buzz in his ear.  
“I always bring her for occasions such as these. Working with you is a reason for any former alcoholic to fall back on old habits. Especially considering the amount of alcohol on your person…no, don’t deny it sweet sister. I can smell the vodka even from down here. Mixed with coffee, I think. I hope Jaime was driving this morning.  
“Besides, Sansa has actually proved herself useful.” He added, glancing up at Sansa who blushed and sipped at her coffee. “She might not be trained for it and is nowhere near as capable nor impressive as me, but she shows promise and her thoughts are helpful. More than yours at any rate. Now, Jaime, what do we have?” He could feel the bristling anger of his sister behind him but blocked it out. He had work to deal with.  
“The girl’s bedroom is round the back. He forced the lock on the window last night at around nine thirty, took her and left the doll in her bed.” Jaime informed.  
“The mother is a strict Christian. She was at her weekly evening church service. The father went to the corner shop to get some wine at around nine forty-five.” Cersei added.  
Tyrion stopped beneath a neat, white archway. Ivy had wound itself around it and had crept through the wooden slats. He stared up at it and reached out to feel. And get a better look. This was the only way out besides the front door. The father had still been in the house until nine forty-five. The intruder had broken in at nine thirty. He would have had to use this way to avoid being seen.  
“This is freshly broken.” Tyrion pulled at the vine so it was clearer for them to see. “By the girl, presumably. Grabbing for a hand hold.”  
“She’s a fighter. Rare in most girls and surprising considering her sop of a mother. It’s good.” His sister observed.  
“If little girls could actually win fights against grown men then yeah, it would be a cause for great optimism.” Tyrion replied before continuing on towards the house. A TV crew were parked outside the front of the house, and that made him walk faster; ignoring the fact he must look ridiculous as he always did when he walked fast on his stunted legs.  
“What are you doing?” He barked up at one of the camera men.  
“Tyrion, this is Loras Tyrell. The parents are being streamed live onto the news. They want to send a message to the man who took their daughter.” Jaime informed. Tyrion turned on him. “Then tell them to stop.” He ordered.  
“Why?”  
“Can you be quiet? We are about to go live!” Loras, the camera man, hissed.  
“Do not…”  
“Live in three…two…one…”  
Tyrion thought fast and moved even faster. Snatching the coffee from Sansa’s unsuspecting hands, he threw it onto the camera, then yanked the lead; disconnecting it from the mains.  
“Hey, my camera!” Loras cried as the monitors went blank and the camera began to make an unhealthy whirring noise. The rest of the camera crew exploded in protest. “I tried to warn him! I did!” Tyrion yelled into the commotion.  
“Can someone please explain to us what is going on here?” The man and woman whom the camera had been aimed at stood up.  
“I am trying to stop these men from killing your daughter.” Tyrion answered. The room fell so silent, Tyrion could have sworn he could hear the father’s teeth grinding together.  
 “Mr and Mrs Baratheon, this is Detective Tyrion Lannister. He is a consultant in the department.” Jaime informed.  
“Victims three, six and eight of the Doll Maker, the only ones whose bodies were discovered. Forensics estimated Mya was kept alive for a day before she was buried, Walder for half a day, Edric for two whole days. Last night I discovered a correlation between the length of time the children were kept alive and the extent of the parents’ media exposure. This killer feeds off the grief of the parents. Laps it up. But he also tires of it quickly. The more interviews they do, the faster the children die. You want to get your little girl back? Don’t nourish him. It might give us two days, maybe more.”  
The father’s face could have been made of steel. He regarded Tyrion coldly; his strong jaw rotating all the while as he ground his teeth. The wife made no move to touch him, nor did he make any attempt to comfort her.  
Interesting.

She remained by the door whilst Tyrion inspected the kitchen. Once again, she could tell his mind was deep into the case. He stood with his back to her; a phone in his hand, though Sansa could not tell whose. She was deep in her own thoughts too.  
“Ramsay Bolton.” She said.  
“Hm?” Tyrion didn’t look up.  
“Ramsay Bolton, the Doll Maker’s first victim. That was his name. He lived just down the road from me.” Tyrion moved over to the fridge, seemingly unaware she had said anything. “I remember after he was taken, it was horrible. We were all so scared we would be next. Our parents wouldn’t let us play outside for weeks. No one really knew him all that well. He didn’t have many friends but still…”  
“Perhaps you would like to go outside.” Tyrion muttered, reaching deep into the fridge.  
“No, it’s ok. I’m fine.”  
“Actually it wasn’t a question, it was an order. You’re putting me off.” He stated bluntly, biting down on his lip as he rummaged through the fridge.  
“I’m putting you off? But you said my thoughts…”  
“Sometimes. Your thoughts are helpful sometimes. Now is not one of those times. _Yes…_ ” He hissed, retrieving his hand from within the depths of the Baratheon’s fridge.  
“Um, excuse me. I’m right here!” Sansa cried, taking in the bottle of wine in his hands.  
“It’s ok, it’s not for me.” He muttered, slamming the fridge door and hurrying past Sansa; the bottle of wine clutched in his hands like some precious token.

Cersei was deep into her questioning when Tyrion entered, but Stannis Baratheon was the man behind the desk; looking as though he would rather be anywhere else but with this idiot. Tyrion couldn’t help but agree with him. Being questioned by Cersei would be enough to dull even the most colourful of minds.  
“Mr Baratheon, where is the wine you claimed to be buying whilst your daughter was taken?” Tyrion asked.  
“In your hands.” Stannis sighed, as though Tyrion were a fool.  
“And there is the lie. This bottle of wine was the only bottle in your fridge. You’ve admitted it was the wine you bought last night. Yet it was placed at the back behind an open pack of strawberries, a half-rotten packet of raspberries, an unopened pot of butter and a pot of Greek yogurt that expires tomorrow. Who, Mr Baratheon, moves things in his fridge to store something he has just bought when there are two other relatively clear shelves already? Seems to me you bought this bottle of wine quite a while ago and remembered you had it so used it to cover up the fact you were meeting another woman.” Tyrion glanced at the big-eared wife sitting silently on the study sofa. She did not seem surprised. Stannis continued to grind his teeth and kept his steely gaze on Tyrion.  
“Tell us, who is Mel?” He asked.  
“Mel?” Cersei arched an eyebrow.  
“Mr Baratheon’s mistress. The only person he texted last night and the woman who inquired whether or not he would meet her outside his house at nine thirty. Though I suppose you were rather excited about the prospect of meeting this woman so you left five minutes early to wait for her, giving the Doll Maker the perfect time frame to snatch your daughter from her bed. It was obvious really. If you had gone to the corner shop at nine forty-five you would have heard the intruder and your daughter who was, no doubt, screaming. As my colleague Cersei said, she was a fighter. Typically, the Doll Maker subdues his victims with some sort of drug, making them unable to fight. But he had not expected you to leave the house at that time so did not know what time you’d be back. Usually he has planned these things. Rather than take his chances, he took Shireen while she was still conscious; using the headscarf she wears to cover her unfortunately placed birthmark as a gag so you wouldn’t hear her.”  
“How did you…”  
“The pictures on your phone. She wore the scarf in every one. No doubt her mother insists she wears it out of embarrassment, judging by the suddenly horrified expression on her face that is directed at me, not her unfaithful husband.” Tyrion was out of breath by the time he was done. The adrenalin that coursed through his veins each time he found a new lead drew all of the fatigue out of him.  
“Where did you meet her last night, Mr Baratheon?” He inquired.  
“A few houses down from here.” Stannis admitted; his steely gaze averted to the neatly lined-up pens on his desk.  
“I would like her contact information, if you please. If she was facing your house, she may have seen something that could help us find your daughter.” Tyrion tried to stifle the triumphant smile, reminding himself that these were still parents that had lost their child. What made the smile more difficult to hide though was Cersei’s infuriated glare he could feel burning through his back.

He had done his best to stay focused throughout the interrogation, but by the end Tyrion was left wondering how the fuck a man like Stannis could get a woman like Mel. He must have been as hot in the sack as he was cold towards the authorities.  
“I didn’t even get out of the car. Once we were done, I was driving away and this van came around the corner, way over the limit, and almost crashed into me.” She said it all with a demure smile, as though she were not an adulterer that had recently, almost certainly, defied death. Were his head not so deep into the case, he would have spent a great many seconds staring at that smile, and the breasts that almost spilled over the tight, red vest top.  
“The Doll Maker must have panicked. He knew Stannis was on his way back and so…”  
“Grabbed the girl and stashed her in his van before speeding off, almost crashing into Miss Asshai here.” Cersei finished.  
“Not that hard to put together.” Tyrion couldn’t stop himself.  
“Do you remember what the van looked like?” Jaime asked, eager to ease the mounting tension.  
“Black. Stereo turned up full volume.”  
“In fear of anyone hearing her screaming through the gag, most likely.” Tyrion muttered to himself.  
“And, did you by any chance get a glimpse at the number plate?” Jaime asked, eyebrows raised hopefully.  
Mel glanced at each of them in turn, as though they were asking a big deal of her. Then, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Were it not for the fact he could see her eyeballs rolling behind their lids, he would have thought she’d fallen asleep.  
“Photographic memory?” Sansa whispered.  
“No such thing. Now shh!” Tyrion hissed back.  
Mel’s eyes snapped open.  
“RS40 WGC” She said, still smiling calmly. Cersei, Jaime, Sansa and Tyrion all glanced around, disturbed by her miraculous recollection. “Well isn’t that convenient.” Tyrion smirked.

Sansa had never been good when it came to travelling. On long journeys, she always had to beg her father to stop the car in fear of throwing up, even if she’d taken her travel sickness tablet.  
Now, as they sped along the motorway, she was thankful that her client had been so busy this morning they hadn’t had time for breakfast.  
“Target spotted four cars ahead on the nearside lane. Over.” Came Jaime’s voice over the radio. Both Sansa and Tyrion craned their necks for a glimpse of the van. “Act normal would you?” Officer Trant growled, low enough so only Sansa heard. She immediately leaned back in her seat; not liking the way he glowered at her in the rear view mirror. “Car five, you still got the right?” Trant called over the radio.  
“Yeah, target’s a white male wearing a hoodie.” Swann’s voice crackled back. Both Sansa and Tyrion braced themselves as the van began to drift to the right. “Target signalling right off the motorway.” Trant practically yelled it in his severe, sharp voice.  
“We got him.” Even Jaime Lannister’s voice was arrogant. When she’d first met him, Sansa was lost for words. She had never seen anyone so perfect. Tyrion had immediately directed her attention towards the fact that his brother and sister always stood that bit too close the moment their father’s back had turn. Jaime’s good looks had somewhat soured after that.  
The sirens blared and several of the cars lit up as their lights were switched on; revealing their true identity. All the cars on the motorway did their best to clear the lanes quickly. All but one. The van sped up and veered off of the motorway and into the nearby town. Sansa lost sight of it as they fell behind three of the other police cars with Jaime’s vehicle right on the van’s tail.  
Merryn might have had a horrible personality, but he was a good driver. Despite how abruptly they were forced to stop, Sansa’s stomach hardly lurched. She followed suit as Tyrion struggled out of the car. He made no move to hurry. “Best to keep to what you’re good at. Know your strengths well and your weaknesses better. Then they can never be used against you.” He had told her once.  
By the time they reached the van, which was, by now, halfway down a ditch, Jaime was already searching the back. “She’s not here!” He declared as her and Tyrion came into view. Tyrion showed no surprise, nor any disappointment.  
“Do we at least have our target?” He asked.  
“Should do. Swann and Oakheart went after him.” Tyrion gave a grim nod and allowed his brother to lead the way.  
They had indeed caught the driver. Swann and Oakheart had pinned him down, face first, on the tarmac. “Captain, I don’t think this can’t be our guy.” Officer Oakheart called. Swann yanked his head up. “Look at him. At the time Ramsay Bolton was kidnapped, this guy would have been in primary school!”  
Jaime turned away in frustration.  
Tyrion ran his hands through his hair.  
Sansa stared down at his face, eyes widening as it dawned on her.  
“No. This is not the man who took Ramsay Bolton.” She said, turning her gaze to Tyrion who looked at her, confused by her voluntary input. Sansa turned away from him and once again looked at his familiar face. “This _is_ Ramsay Bolton.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion tries his best to get Ramsay to talk. Sansa has a date that doesn't end well. The Doll Maker sends a message.

It was not the constant denials, nor the gradual wearing down of a person that made Tyrion hate interrogations. It was the humiliating fact that he needed to stand on a stool so he could see through the mirrored window that looked into the interrogation room. Fortunately, Cersei was in the room with the boy and unable to make jokes about it.  
“Ramsay.” Her voice was almost soft, yet the boy continued to stare down at the table top. “Ramsay, talk to me. We know who you are. Your fingerprints have confirmed it. How did you end up in that van?” Her voice grew sharper as he continued to stare down at the table; lips pursed tightly together.  
“Never one for patience our sister.” Tyrion muttered to Jaime.  
“We’ve got a psychiatrist coming in but I don’t think they’ll be able to help. The kid just doesn’t want to engage.” Jaime replied; all business.  
“What about his parents?” Tyrion asked.  
“Parent. His mother died of an overdose shortly after he disappeared. His father and mother weren’t together.”  
“I remember. Roose was married and had a son already. We were riding our bikes along the road when the social workers turned up with Ramsay.” Sansa recalled. Tyrion looked up at her, registered her distant expression, then turned away again.  
“His father should be here within an hour.”  
“He was found in the van we thought belonged to The Doll Maker. That’s more than a coincidence, right?” Sansa asked, never turning her gaze away from the window. “I read about a case like this. A  sixteen year old girl was taken from her home. When they found her at the age of twenty, she didn’t want to leave because she had grown too attached to her captor. Eventually he was found by the authorities but died of his bullet wounds after an officer fired at him. When she found out he was dead, she killed herself. That’s how sympathised she’d become.” Tyrion listened to Sansa’s story in silence. He had heard it too and had recalled exactly the same story before she’d said it out loud. “If that’s what happened here it would explain why Ramsay was running from the police instead of to them.” She added.  
“Because he’s actually grown to care for the lunatic.” Tyrion finished bitterly. The thought of it made him sick. This boy had been brought up by a child killer who no doubt forced him to participate in his killings, yet Tyrion had no doubt he would leap at the chance to defend his captor.  
“If Ramsay’s still alive then maybe some of the other victims are too?” Sansa’s voice was full of hope. Tyrion shook his head. “Ramsay was special. His first. The bodies of the victims recovered show that The Doll Maker seemed to rather like killing. Once he had a taste of it he never looked back. The question now is what role did Ramsay play?”  
“We are searching the van for any sign the Baratheon girl was in there. Right now, all Ramsay can be done for is theft. But if he doesn’t start talking, it’ll be too late for Shireen.” His brother said grimly. Tyrion looked up at him, then back at Ramsay. The boy, despite Cersei’s efforts, still had not glanced up from the table.  
“Give me ten minutes with him.” Tyrion did not ask. He ordered.  
“Tyrion, you’re a consultant. Not a police officer.” Jaime muttered in reply, having none of it.  
“Ten minutes.” His tone was adamant and unyielding.  
“Fine.” Jaime sighed, knowing he had lost before he’d even begun. “You have five minutes.”

By the time he was let into the interrogation room, Cersei had given up and left, leaving the room empty apart from Ramsay. He didn’t even look up when Tyrion entered. It was queer to not feel the familiar judgement and amusement fill the room as he waddled over to the chair. Tyrion quickly glanced at his reflection, knowing Sansa was still watching from behind the glance; listening to every word they would say.  
He sat down, leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together casually.  
“Hello Ramsay.” He smiled warmly. Ramsay did nothing but play with his hands nervously. From what Tyrion could see of his face, the boy was frightened.  
“As you can probably tell, I’m no police officer. Nor am I a psychiatrist which makes me the only person you’re going to talk to today that isn’t going to lie to you.” Tyrion paused, allowing the words to sink in. Ramsay raised his head by a fraction. He had his attention. “The woman who was here earlier, she told you that the man who took you was a bad man. That he hurt you. Abused you. But she doesn’t understand, does she?” Tyrion paused again and watched as the boy chewed nervously on his lower lip. “He also took care of you. Raised you, fed you, taught you how to drive. Loved you.” Ramsay glanced up at him through his lashes and Tyrion could have sworn he bobbed his head in agreement.  
_Time for my own sob story._  
“My father sent me off to boarding school the moment I was old enough. Couldn’t stand the sight of me, most likely. Not a very compassionate man, my father.” Ramsay swallowed nervously; his Adam’s apple fluttering up and down. “I was a know-it-all. It made a lot of the other boys hate me. One boy, in particular. Merrett Frey. Over the years, Merrett took his anger out on me in numerous terrible and humiliating ways. Nothing close to what you’ve experienced but it seemed worth mentioning because…” Tyrion looked away from him and stared into the corner of the room, seeing Merrett’s hideous face again in his mind’s eye. “Because the more Merrett hurt me, the more I felt gratitude for the fact he was paying attention to me. As though, in tormenting me, he was attempting to correct what I knew to be wrong with myself. One day, after a particularly brutal…lesson,” He twiddled his thumbs the way Ramsay had done when he’d first entered. “He left me in a very bad way. A teacher asked me who was responsible. I told him I’d fallen down the stairs.”  
Ramsay raised a hand to itch his nose.  
“Funny…the things we do to protect those we care about…” Tyrion’s train of thought drifted as he caught sight of a deep cut on Ramsay’s hand. “Did _he_ do that to you?” Tyrion inquired.  
Ramsay lowered his hand and slowly shook his head.  
“No.” His voice was quiet and shaky and he hunched his shoulders over when he spoke, as though trying to hide himself within himself. Tyrion just nodded and smiled again gently when Ramsay looked at him. “The other night…it was too warm. I tried to open the window but it was stuck and my hand went through the glass.” Ramsay admitted; eyes darting about. More down to the fear of talking. It was not a lie. “He took care of me. Put a bandage on it. He does everything for me. He’d _do_ anything for me.” Ramsay’s eyes filled with adoration and longing. “He comes home every morning and brings me breakfast. He doesn’t have to but he does. If I’ve been naughty he tells me off, but I need it. I cause it. I misbehave sometimes. It’s all for my own good.” The words were said robotically as if they had been learnt, but Tyrion knew better than to dwell on that now. It was something to analyse later. “He loves me. Everything he does, he does…”  
“Time’s up.” Jaime announced, opening the door. Ramsay went quiet again and it was almost as though Tyrion could see him crawling back into his shell.  
“It hasn’t even been five minutes!” Tyrion complained.  
“I know but…Ramsay’s father is here.” Jaime’s eyes twitched to Ramsay, checking for a reaction. There was none. Ramsay had returned to his safe place once more

Sansa barely remembered what Roose Bolton had looked like when she was a child, so it seemed strange to her to see him sitting beside his lawyer in the police department; his face completely unchanged from the moment she’d met him when she was five. He terrified her as much now as he had done back then too; with his cold eyes and thin lips that made it unclear whether he was grimacing or smiling.  
Sitting opposite Cersei and Jaime, he seemed to be doing neither. His was without expression; he did not look relieved that they had found his son, nor angry that he was being kept from him.  
Sansa sat beside Tyrion in the corner of the room; observing the scene in silence.  
“I don’t doubt that you think my son had something to do with what happened to the Baratheon girl and the other children.” Roose stated, leaning back in his chair and fixing the golden-haired twins with his cool gaze.  
“It’s a possibility, Mr Bolton. Which is why we want to keep Ramsay with us. He might be able to help us locate Shireen Baratheon.” Jaime was leaning forward intently, his elbows resting on the desk. Roose remained quite unperturbed.  
“Ramsay never had any friends. He never seemed to want any either.” Sansa muttered to Tyrion. “He spent most of his time at home.”  
“Can’t imagine why.” Tyrion sighed, his gaze never straying from Roose.  
“Roose Bolton was never one for showing emotions. He had another son, Domeric, who died when he was a teenager. We went to the funeral. Roose didn’t shed a tear. I’m sure he was upset. I can’t imagine what it’s been like to lose both sons.” Sansa remembered the funeral well. Domeric had been a good friend of Robb’s.  
“That was some amazing work you did back there with Ramsay. You know, the story about the bully was really moving.” It had been mesmerizing to watch; the way Tyrion had managed to pull Ramsay out into the open with just his words. “Was any of it true?”  
“I went to boarding school.” Tyrion shrugged before turning his attention back to Roose.  
Roose’s lawyer, Mr Walton, spoke up. “You should know, Officer Lannister, that we’ve broached the possibility of an immunity deal with the district attorney’s office. Ramsay would be given immunity for any crimes he may have been compelled to commit by the individual who took him and in exchange he’d tell you everything he knows about the man. He’ll also help you try and locate the bodies of the victims that were never recovered. We are expecting to hear back from the D.A by morning.”  
“By then it might be too late for the Baratheon girl.” Cersei argued.  
“Which is why we very much hope that Ramsay will agree to our proposal.” It was then that Tyrion suddenly stood and headed towards the door. Sansa followed dutifully, confused by his sudden exit.  
“Where are you going?” She asked as soon as they were out of the door.  
“Whether Ramsay accepts the immunity deal or not it doesn’t matter. My talk with him wasn’t entirely wasted. He said The Doll Maker comes home every morning with breakfast. He works nightshifts. It’s not much but it’s more than I had.”  
“So we can run with that?” She asked.  
“ _I_ can. I need to go through a lot of files. My brain is the filter they all need to go through, not yours.” He insisted, not breaking stride or looking up at her. Sansa felt hurt by the fact he didn’t want her to help. _It’s not my job_ she reminded herself.  
“Fine. Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go out. I think you can handle being alone for the evening.” She still couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.  
“Out? Out where?” Tyrion did look up at her then.  
“It’s not your concern. Enjoy your evening with your files. I’ll be making you take a breathalyser test when I get back. ” She said dryly before lengthening her stride and leaving him far behind.

She was getting ready to leave when he arrived. He looked flustered but still there wasn’t a hair out of place. “Forgive me for my tardiness, Sansa.” He smiled that charming smile, removed his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair in one swift movement before sitting down opposite her. Immediately the waiter appeared and filled his wine glass which he swapped to his left side to accommodate his left handedness. The way his eyes fixated on her banished all thoughts of leaving from her mind.  
“No, it’s fine really. I shouldn’t have called you so unexpectedly. I just got off work early so I thought we should meet up. I’m sorry for the short notice.” She smiled back nervously, wondering if she had babbled too much. He was so mature and intelligent, she didn’t want to look like a fool.  
“That’s quite alright. I know you’re busy. I’m grateful for any time you can spare for me.” He leant forward and placed his hand over hers.  
“Mr Baelish.” Sansa could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks and averted her eyes from his.  
“Call me Petyr.” His voice was gentle, but she couldn’t deny that the smoothness of it made her stomach flutter in a way that made her cheeks burn even more.  
“So, your client let you go early?” Petyr asked, trying to provoke conversation.  
“Yes, he had something he needed to do alone. He is very…dedicated to his work.”  
“Well I suppose he needs to do something to keep him off the drink.” Petyr’s mouth twitched into a smirk. It irked her somewhat. “No, nothing like that. He loves his work. It’s interesting getting to watch him. He’s so…” Her voice trailed off as a siren sounded nearby. The police car turned onto their road and rolled up outside the restaurant they were in. “Irritating.” Sansa finished through clenched teeth.  
Sure enough, the door opened and Tyrion jumped out with a mission in his step.  
“Sansa, there you are. Come on, we haven’t got much time.” He announced when he reached their table.  
“I’m…Tyrion, I’m sort of in the middle of something?” He blinked and stared at her. Sansa widened her eyes and inclined her head towards Petyr. “Ah, you must be Petyr Baelish. Tyrion Lannister, Sansa’s client.” Tyrion held out a hand which Petyr took after giving Sansa a questioning glance. Once again, her cheeks burned red.  
“Now, Sansa, we need to go. My brother is waiting.” Tyrion turned and stared at her expectantly. Sansa didn’t move.  
“Mr Lannister, Sansa and I are…”  
“On a date. Yes. Clearly. Though I highly doubt my sober companion would be dating a man if she knew that you were, in fact, married.”  
Sansa turned to look at Petyr who was doing his best to remain unconcerned.  
“When I shook your hand, you gave me your right hand. Of course that’s of little significance, were it not for the fact you are left handed; as shown by how you’ve swapped your wine glass from the right side to the left. Clearly you are paranoid about people seeing your left hand, probably due to the fact there is an approximately 3mm wide strip of skin encircling your ring finger that is several shades lighter that the rest of your finger, indicating that you usually wear a ring. A wedding ring. No doubt you removed it on your way to meet my sober companion and placed it in…” Tyrion moved quickly and reached into the left side pocket of Petyr’s jacket. “Aha…” He pulled the ring out and held it up for Sansa to see. “Clearly you were trying to remove it discretely in fear of the driver of your taxi seeing and telling your wife, spurring an attack of frightful jealousy that is obviously quite common. Why else would you be seeking companionship elsewhere if you were happily married? I suppose you arrived late too? Most likely due to the fact you requested a restaurant relatively far away from your home in case you might come across anyone you or your wife might know who could inform her of your adulterous behaviour.”  
Sansa raised an eyebrow at Petyr, awaiting an explanation. Petyr clenched and unclenched his left hand, staring angrily at Tyrion.  
“Now, Sansa, shall we go?” Tyrion asked. Sansa stood up and picked up her bag and coat. “Yes, I’m done here.” Sansa hurled the words at Petyr before leading the way out of the restaurant, feeling like less of a girl and more of a woman with every step.  
That still didn’t stop the anger and humiliation she felt when they were back in the car though.  
“I went through the files. The Doll Maker changed jobs. He was a plumber. He fixed a leak in Roose Bolton’s home the same week that Ramsay was taken. No one thought anything of it until the parents of victims two and three also hired his services. Only he worked for a company. The FBI noticed the correlation and interviewed all forty of the employees but failed to find any strong suspects and so discarded their theory. But I think they were onto something. I think The Doll Maker changed jobs between victims three and four. The only correlation between victim number four and Shireen Baratheon is that both their mothers are religious enthusiasts. And both mothers had a subscription to the magazine Woman Alive, a Christian magazine for women. I saw a copy of the magazine in the Baratheon home. The parents of the other victims weren’t subscribers but have neighbours who are. The Doll Maker identified his first three victims from his first job and the rest through his second as a delivery man for Woman Alive. I called the magazine to find the name of the man responsible for the Baratheons’ route. I told them I subscribed as a gift for my wife and I was looking to send a belated tip.” Tyrion settled back into his seat as they sped through the night, clearly pleased with himself.  
“So you got his name, managed to get his address and we are on his way to his house now.” Sansa put it all together and said it somewhat flatly. Of course, it did not go unnoticed. “I take it by your disinterested tone that you are not best pleased with me and my interrupting of your date.” He said. She could tell he was watching her closely.  
“No, it’s not you. It’s him. I just…I’m so _stupid_.” She muttered in frustration.  
“I would say that you possessed above what is considered to be an average level of intelligence Sansa.” He said by way of apology and assurance. “It has its costs, learning to see the puzzle in everything.” He admitted, his voice somewhat sad. “People, with all their lies and secrets, tend to be the most fascinating puzzles of all. You are quite a puzzle yourself. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the sort of girl that goes after older men.” She could hear the amused smile in his voice.  
“You know, sometimes even _I_ can understand why you irritate your family so much.” She shot back; making Jaime, who was driving, snort with laughter.

The apartment was everything Tyrion had expected it would be. From the outside, anyway. He sat in between his sister and brother with Sansa behind them still in sullen silence; watching the monitors that showed the view from the cameras on the officers helmets as they forced their way into the apartment. “Gregor Clegane’s mother is listed as the owner of the apartment but she died about six months ago.” Jaime informed. “He put it as his home address the last time he renewed his driver’s licence.  
They all watched in silence as the door to the apartment was knocked down to allow access for the raiding party. Tyrion leant forward, clutching his hands nervously; hoping they would find the man they were looking for.  
As the cameramen went from room to room, his hopes dwindled. There was no one in the apartment.  
“Wait, what was that?” Tyrion leapt from his stool as he caught glimpse of something colourful in one of the rooms.  
“Swann, go back to the room you just passed on your left.” Jaime ordered into his radio. The cameras all turned as the policemen did as his brother bid; streaming into the room and encircling the object. The balloons swayed and bobbed; lonesome in the empty room. Each one had the same celebratory message printed on it in colourful, fun writing.  
“Congratulations.” Cersei read, “To who?”  
“To us.” Tyrion answered. “What are they being weighed down by?” Jaime repeated the question into his radio. The officers looked down at the doll the balloons had been tied to.  
“Well at least we know he’s been here.” Jaime sighed.  
“Looks like you’ve lead us to a dead end, little brother.” Cersei smirked. Tyrion snatched the radio from his brothers hand.  
“Smash the dolls head in.” He ordered.  
“What?” Swann replied.  
“The doll. Smash its head in. There must be a reason Clegane hasn’t done it himself. Smash the head. Do it.” His voice gave no room for compromising.  
“That is the only evidence we’ve found here!” Cersei argued.  
“Smash. It.” Tyrion insisted.  
“Do as he said.” Tyrion looked up and met Jaime’s gaze. Swann’s radio disconnected and he moved over to the balloons. With one sharp stamp, the doll’s skull cracked open.  
“There’s something inside!” Oakheart announced; his voice being picked up from the cameras. Swann bent down, sending the view from his camera into a confusion of colour as he retrieved Gregor’s gift. He held it up for them to see.  
“It’s a memory stick.” Cersei pointed out the obvious. It was a talent of hers.  
“Bring it to us now.” Jaime ordered.

They all gathered closer around the monitor in the police van. Even Sansa stood to get a better look. Tyrion inserted the memory stick into the computer. Soon enough, a man’s face appeared on the screen. He was sitting down, but it was still easy to see he was a mountain of a man.  
“Not the sort of man you would expect to leave dolls lying around.” Jaime muttered. Tyrion didn’t bother to reply and pressed play.  
“You have something that’s mine.” The mountain said in a series of grunts. “You have Ramsay.” He continued with genuine grief on his face. “You know who I am and you know what I can do. I’ve already killed nine people. If you haven’t released my son back to me by noon tomorrow, you can make it ten.” Once again, the monitor was sent into a confusing blur as he rotated the camera to face the wall opposite. When the camera finally came back into focus, they all looked with pity at the terrified Shireen who stared into the camera with wide, pleading eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lannister's are under pressure from Shireen's parents. Tyrion speaks with Ramsay again and helps him to make a tough decision.

“What’s stopping you? Make the trade. Get my daughter back.” Stannis Baratheon’s face remained unchanged; hard as steel.  
“I’m afraid it isn’t that simple, Mr Baratheon. We can’t trade one victim for another.” Tyrion could tell Jaime was tiring and would lose patience quickly. They had both been up all night trying to work out a way around the deal. Tyrion hadn’t slept the night before last either and had zoned out three times in the past fifteen minutes.  
“Says on the news he assisted Gregor Clegane in murdering his other nine children. Yet you stand here and tell us we should pity him and call him a _victim_? He’s been offered an immunity deal. If he’s a victim, what does he need immunity from?” Tyrion could hear Stannis grinding his teeth together.  
“We haven’t confirmed that Ramsay Bolton did assist Gregor Clegane in the murders of the other nine…”  
“Has nobody asked Ramsay Bolton what _he_ wants? He’s an adult, isn’t he? If he hasn’t agreed to this immunity deal, then maybe he wants to go back to him.” Selyse Baratheon added.  
“Victims of abuse are often protective of those that have abused them, it doesn’t mean we should send them back for more. It isn’t fair and it isn’t right.” Tyrion said, snapping out of his daydream.  
“Besides, just because he hasn’t signed the immunity deal doesn’t make him guilty. The boy is in shock. He’s traumatised. He has hardly said a word, even to his own father…” Jaime was cut off when Stannis stood up abruptly. He was only slightly taller than Jaime but his cold demeanour seemed to make him more threatening. “If _anything_ happens to my daughter, it will be on your pretty blond head.” He growled before striding from the room; his big eared wife hurrying after him.  
They sat there in silence for a moment; looking in different directions but seeing nothing.  
“So what now?” Sansa sighed.  
“We could go over the files. Look for a clue as to where Clegane is keeping Shireen.” Tyrion suggested.  
“We could.” Jaime shrugged as though there were another option.  
“Or?”  
“When Roose Bolton hired a lawyer he put a wall up between Ramsay and the Police. No officer can talk to him. No _officer._ ” Jaime looked at Tyrion meaningfully and gave him a small smile. Tyrion leapt up from his chair.  
“Where is Ramsay Bolton now?”

Ramsay looked up this time when Tyrion entered. His hands were on the table; clasped, but still visible. A gesture that he doubted Ramsay consciously knew meant he was willing to be open and was relatively comfortable in his environment.  
“Thank you for seeing me, Ramsay.” Tyrion smiled, taking a seat opposite him.  
“You’re the only one who gets it.” Ramsay mumbled; turning his gaze back down to his hands. Clearly, he was not fully trustful of Tyrion, but it was an improvement.  
“Well you know we’ve identified him don’t you? Gregor Clegane.” As soon as he said the name, Ramsay’s face creased up as he struggled to hold back tears. “Are you worried about him?”  
“He’s my dad.” Ramsay’s voice fell in and out of a choked whisper as tears threatened to betray him. He shifted in his chair; lips trembling as he bit his fear and confusion back.  
“Is that why you haven’t signed the immunity deal?” Tyrion pressed on, sensing that Ramsay was not a boy who wanted someone dwelling on his emotions.  
“Would you turn in your dad?”  
“I’d trade my dad for a tic-tac.” Tyrion shrugged. He wasn’t a fan of tic-tac’s, but then again he wasn’t a fan of his dad either. “But that’s my dad, not yours. The sooner we find him the better off he’ll be. He hasn’t hurt Shireen Baratheon yet.” He could see the conflict written across Ramsay’s face. Roose Bolton was not his father. Gregor Clegane had cared for him. Had loved him. From what he could tell, Roose was incapable of love and Tyrion doubted Ramsay had seen much of it before Gregor took him.   
Ramsay didn’t want to lose the one man in the world that gave a shit about him.  
“You loved him, I know. But you didn’t love what he did.” Ramsay looked away; tears reddening the whites of his eyes as he saw the truth through his blurred vision. “He made you help with the others didn’t he?” Tyrion asked with a sad, reassuring smile.  
“He’s my dad.” Ramsay whispered.  
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard.” Ramsay looked around the room at anything other than Tyrion; unwilling to admit the truth. “Do you feel like you don’t deserve it? Is that why you won’t sign the deal?”  
Ramsay quickly wiped away the tear that slid down his cheek with the heel of his hand.  
“I never knew why it was so important to him.” Ramsay spread out his hands helplessly. “I love him and…and he asked me to help take the others and I told him…told him I would…”  
“It’s okay, Ramsay. It’s okay.” Tyrion reassured. Ramsay closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. No it’s not okay. Nothing’s okay. I’m so confused! I don’t know what to do.” He pressed his palms over his eyes just before the tears could spill over. Tyrion waited as the boy sniffed and shook; reigning back his emotions. After a moment, Ramsay sat up straight again.  
“You…you told me the other day that…that you would never lie to me?” He sniffed.  
“That’s right.” Tyrion nodded.  
Hope replaced the tears in Ramsay’s eyes.  
“So tell me…if…if I sign that deal, and if I tell you where you can find him…do you think it’ll…it’ll make up for the things I have done?”  
Tyrion kept his eyes on Ramsay. The boy gripped the table; eyes wide with anxiety as he waited for a reply.  
“No. No I don’t.” Tyrion admitted, shaking his head.  
Ramsay slumped back in his chair and looked away, defeated.  
“Nine other children are dead thanks to your dad. To whatever degree you assisted him, you will never get their blood off of your hands.”  
Ramsay released a choked sob.  
Tyrion leant forward.  
“But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

Shireen was still staring at the body of the man beside her; her mouth partially open in shock. “Shireen? Shireen, would you like to come with me?” Sansa asked gently.  
“He’s…he…” She stammered.  
“It’s alright, it’s over now. Come with me and let the police take care of it.” She helped the child up onto shaky legs and turned her away from the body. Pulses of blood still poured from his temple where the bullet had entered. The blood had pooled around his head and had seeped out so it almost reached his hand; the tip of the gun dipping into the red liquid.  
They had watched it all from the monitors in the police van that was parked outside. Jaime had kicked down the door and ordered Gregor to drop the gun and release the girl.  
Gregor had said only one thing.  
“Tell Ramsay I’m sorry.” He had grunted before throwing Shireen to the floor, raising his gun and pulling the trigger; sending the bullet through his brain. It had all happened so quickly that she and Tyrion had sat in shock for a moment. The man guilty for the kidnapping of eleven children and the murder of nine had killed himself. She could tell that Tyrion was disappointed; it had all been for nothing.   
“Shireen is okay. She’s terrified but she hasn’t been hurt.” Sansa informed as she moved to stand beside Tyrion who was still staring down at the body. His lips twitched to show he was deep in thought. “You can go home and get some rest.” He had not rested for two days now and Sansa was worried. Former addicts were more likely to relapse when they were tired or stressed.  
Still Tyrion did not move. In fact he hardly seemed to have noticed she was there.  
“Are you okay?”  
“He wasn’t what I was expecting.” Tyrion admitted. Sansa followed his gaze to look down at him. The man was huge and heavily built. She could imagine he would be terrifying to a grown man, let alone a child. The only sign of weakness was a back brace he wore. She could see a scar underneath it from where he must have gone through surgery on a vertebrae.  
“He dominated Ramsay. I was expecting a stronger man, more willing to put up a fight.”  
“Those scars suggest he had surgery on his back. That would have weakened him.” She pointed out, not that Tyrion hadn’t already noticed. “He would have needed Ramsay to help him get around.” Sansa added, though Tyrion didn’t seem to be listening. He turned his head from side to side; his large forehead creased into a frown. “Do you hear that?” He asked, still tilting his head.  
“Hear what?” Sansa’s brows furrowed in concern as she tried to recall if this was a sign of weakness; if Tyrion was about to go on a hunt for alcohol. Or worse.  
He didn’t answer her question; simply moved away from her and headed deeper into the flat. He was searching for something. He led the way into a small room. It was more of a cupboard really. Sansa stood beside him and took it all in. There was a mattress with a pillow and a woollen blanket. The sheets were covered with stains, most of which were unidentifiable, though Sansa spotted a couple of blood stains here and there. She shuddered at the thought of what The Doll Maker had put Ramsay through and what he had made him do.  
“This must be where Ramsay slept.” She breathed, then regretted it and clamped her hand over her nose. The room stank as well and she wondered if its inhabitant had ever been allowed to clean it.  
Tyrion didn’t seem to notice. He moved away from the room, down the corridor and into another. Sansa hurried after him. This room was far bigger with a wide double bed, a laptop and two TV’s as well as an Xbox. Tyrion was by the window and yanking the curtains back by the time she reached the doorway. He took a step back; staring at a hole in the glass. The wind outside whistled through it and caused a ghostly sound which must have been what he’d heard earlier.   
“What’s wrong?” She asked. He turned to look at her; his face a mask of fear, frustration and confusion.  
Without a word, he moved over to the bed and pulled out his magnifying glass; holding it over one of the pillows. After a moment, he shoved it back into his pocket, took and abrupt step back and turned to look at her; his face twitching with barely-restrained anger.  
“That man out there, Clegane, is _not_ The Doll Maker.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion becomes frustrated over the sudden turn in events. Sansa tries to keep his head clear. Ramsay isn't helping anything.

The room was spacious. Not cosy, but luxurious. Everything around the room was new; a new bed, a new wardrobe, a new laptop and games console, a new desk, new posters, a new lamp.  
Clearly, Roose Bolton had thought to keep nothing in preparation for the son that might return.  
The door opened; illuminating the lean figure momentarily before he closed the door and entered the darkened room. Turning on the lamp, Tyrion swung round on the chair to face Ramsay; opening and snapping shut the new pair of WHSmiths scissors with an air of frustration.  
“Hello Ramsay.” Tyrion forced himself to smile, though he doubted it looked very welcoming. He placed the scissors back onto the desk, fearing what he may do with them if they were within reach. Ramsay turned with a look of innocent shock on his face. “Mr Lannister, what are you doing here?” He mumbled fearfully. There was no hint of the true boy behind Ramsay’s mask. Anyone could look at him and see a young man who had been traumatised for half his life. Yet Tyrion wasn’t anyone and it irked him that even he had been fooled.  
_This is what it must feel like for Cersei all the time._  
“I thought we could have another one of our little chats.” Tyrion sneered, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice. Ramsay remained at the far side of the room; his hands clasped behind his back. “How did you get in here?”  
“Through the window. Well, a colleague of mine slipped through the window and let me in while you and your father went and got…” He paused to sniff the air, “Chinese.” Ramsay’s face remained a blank mask; a fools face. “Fortunately my colleague seemed to make it through without cutting their hand.” Ramsay’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, though whether it was real or another part of the act, Tyrion couldn’t tell. “You said you cut your hand opening a window in your room. _Your_ room. Not Gregor Clegane’s.”  
Ramsay’s face did not even flinch. He was very good at this.  
“So you can imagine my surprise when today…a bed, a laptop, _two_ TV’s, even an Xbox. It was virtually a palace compared to Gregor’s room. All he had was a piss and blood stained mattress that I doubt was big enough to hold a man of his size. What did he do? Curl up like a dog?”  
“No, that was my room…that was where he made me sleep…”  
“No, don’t lie to me Ramsay. Not again.” Tyrion cut in sharply. “You told me when I pointed it out that you cut your hand when trying to open a window in _your_ bedroom. The master bedroom. You had the master bedroom because you were the master.” Tyrion never moved from the chair. He didn’t allow himself to. If he stood up, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself punching the psychopath the only place he could reach at his stunted level.   
“Mr Lannister, I think…”  
“I examined the pillows in the master bedroom. I found only short, dark hairs. Clegane’s hair was no longer than two millimetres and had begun to go grey. No wonder considering what he’s been through. What you put him through. He wasn’t The Doll Maker. _You_ were.” Ramsay moved over to the window.  
His back was to Tyrion. Tyrion could still see his hands clasped together, only now they weren’t clasped out of nervousness or fear. They were clasped in thought. He turned around. Tyrion looked up into the face of The Doll Maker. Ramsay grinned back at him; his eyes flashing madly.   
Pulling a chair up, Ramsay sat down opposite him so they were at eye-level; leaning back and clasping his hands together on his lap. Each movement was calm yet sharp with the accuracy of a well-trained hunter. He was more comfortable than Tyrion had ever seen him.    
“You tricked me Ramsay. That doesn’t happen very often.” Tyrion admitted. “I thought you were an idiot. You’re actually quite brilliant.” Ramsay grinned and bowed his head; a humble acceptance of the compliment. The light from the lamp cast sinister shadows across his face. “It must take huge intellect for a boy to turn the tables on the man who abducted him.”  
“You have no idea.” Ramsay laughed casually, as if this were an everyday conversation.  
“Whose idea was it to take more children? Was it his, or was it yours?” The thought made Tyrion sick. This boy wanted to put children through the same thing he had. Only this time _he_ wanted the control.  
Ramsay’s sickening grin widened and his eyelids fluttered in mock innocence. “I had just turned fourteen, I was lonely.” He shrugged, sticking out his lower lip.  
“No. My colleague knew you before you were taken. You didn’t want friends, even then. No, what you wanted was to make someone else the victim. Hurt them like you’d been hurt.” Tyrion leant forward a little; his lips twitching with anger. Ramsay shook his head. “No, you’re forgetting the parents. They’re the ones I got to see on TV; crying, begging for the monster to bring their son or daughter back. That’s why I had two TV’s. You don’t know fun until you’ve played Grand Theft Auto and listened to a mother mewling at the same time.” The Doll Maker chuckled. “You see when Gregor first took me it was very difficult. I had to put up with things you can’t even begin to imagine. But he did let me watch TV. So I got to watch my parents on the news at least once a day. I listened to my crack-whore of a mother pleading with Gregor to let me go. And do you know what? He wasn’t the least bit affected. Just like my father. Oh, everyone says Roose Bolton keeps it all locked up inside, but that’s a lie. He has nothing inside.  
“Neither of them were affected. But I was.” He admitted with utmost sincerity.  
“You got off on it.” Tyrion growled.  
“I really found myself while watching my mother break down a little bit more each day. And as for how I turned the tables on Gregor, let’s just say it’s not that difficult when your captor has an IQ south of ninety.” He scoffed; his eyes drifting away from Tyrion as though he were seeing Gregor again, broken and huddling before his feet. “Psychological abuse, physical abuse followed by mental torture. It’s all very standard.  
“And the trade he proposed yesterday? Shireen for me? It wasn’t even his idea. I made a contingency plan. If I ever got caught he would use the hostage, or get a new one to secure my release. The idiot didn’t even have a clue. I called him Dolly, by the way. He _loved_ making them for me. Anyway, the police would never go for that deal but…”  
“You knew it would give them the incentive to offer you the immunity deal.” Tyrion finished; sitting back in his chair. He couldn’t help but admire the little psycho.   
“Are you here to kill me Mr Lannister? Because I have to admit I find the prospect very…exciting. I wonder if your screams will sound just like the children’s do. You are all very much alike height wise.”  
Tyrion was tempted. Oh…so tempted, and Ramsay knew it. He sat still for a painfully long minute; waiting to see if Tyrion would allow his instincts to take over, before he leant forward, smiled and muttered “I’m going to go and get ready for bed now. It’s been a long day.” Ramsay stood up. Tyrion remained where he was; staring at the empty chair.  
“I don’t think you’re going to be here when I get back.” Ramsay groaned as he stretched and padded over to the door to get to the bathroom. “If it’s any consolation I’m not going to stick around here for much longer. I think it’s time for a fresh start. A clean slate somewhere knew.” Ramsay turned and smiled once he reached the door. “I’m going to miss our little chats.”  
Ramsay left the door open for him.  
Tyrion picked up the scissors and left them lodged in the wood of the desk. In warning perhaps? His blinding rage couldn’t allow him to say.

Sansa paced around the living room, frantically texting.  
Tyrion loaded his crossbow again, aimed, and fired it at the case board. There were multiple holes already that had been there when Sansa had moved in. Clearly, firing a crossbow was something Tyrion did when a case didn’t go his way.  
“I spoke to my friend who works with the D.A. The wording is pretty ironclad. Ramsay Bolton is immune for…”  
“Any crimes committed in consort with Gregor Clegane aka. The Doll Maker. Yes I’m well aware.” Tyrion hissed through his teeth; throwing the crossbow to the floor and turning away from the board. “I’m quite familiar with the phrasing, I’ve been reviewing it myself.” For the past two hours since he’d gotten home to be exact. Yet the words never shifted. Ramsay couldn’t be touched. Had he known that? Probably. The little shit had always been one step ahead since day one making sure that Gregor could be associated with every case. And who would suspect him? Even Tyrion hadn’t.   
The boy had had everyone fooled.  
“Look, what Ramsay did was disgusting and I hate the fact he is free to do it again, but you did make a difference Tyrion. You did.” Sansa reassured him. It wasn’t enough. Picking up the crossbow, he resumed his attack on the case board; wincing as he felt a muscle in his back twinge.  
“You saved Shireen Baratheon and the police know what kind of monster Ramsay really is.”  
“I handed a psychopath a get out of jail free card.” He yelled, releasing the bolt. “Ah, fuck!” He cried as he felt the muscle in his twinge again.  
“What? Tyrion, what is it?” Sansa was suddenly at his side; smothering him.  
“Nothing! Just a bit of back pain.” He began to ready another bolt and raised the crossbow   
Sansa frowned as the silence dragged on and still no bolt was fired.  
“Back pain.” Tyrion muttered.  
“What?” He turned to face her; thankfully lowering his crossbow as he did so.  
“Yes. Dear, sweet _back pain_.”

The boy was lounging on a park bench; his arms draped leisurely along the back, chin tilted up slightly so his pale skin could soak in the sun. He looked just like any other young layabout with nothing to do. Around him, children played noisily in the sunshine.   
Through partially closed eyelids, Ramsay watched a young boy playing ball with his dad whilst the mother laughed and set up a picnic blanket. He smiled and tilted his head forward; observing their every cheerful move.  
“Morning Ramsay.” Tyrion called out as he approached. Ramsay didn’t turn around; just waited until he had sat down beside him. He turned his head and looked at him, smirking, before turning back to his observations. “Picturing those two begging for their son’s life?” Tyrion asked casually, nodding his head towards the boy and his parents.  
“Nope. It’s nice out here. I’m just passing the time.” Ramsay shrugged, turning once again to look at him. Tyrion couldn’t help but notice that he’d straightened his back a little so he was a good deal taller. “You look tired.” Ramsay pointed out.  
It was true. He hadn’t slept again last night. Too busy.  
“I’ve been getting that a lot lately.” Sansa never shut up about it. “Listen, before you leave town I wanted to ask you about one of your victims. Edric Storm? Your eighth victim? Parents called him Eddie? You abducted him…”  
“Oh, that’s right. Blue eyes? Black hair? Cried a lot and screamed like a little girl. I know the one.” Ramsay turned his attention back to the boy as though bored by the conversation, though Tyrion couldn’t miss the look of pleasure and nostalgia in his eyes.  
“I’m sure you could reminisce all day. Not your cleanest work though. The police found his body four days after he disappeared.”  
“Yeah we buried them deeper after that.” Ramsay grinned. “Actually, let me be clear about that in case there’s someone spying on us. Mr Clegane _made_ me bury them deeper after that.” The Doll Maker’s grin widened.  
“Whoever’s idea it was, it was a good one because the police found skin particles beneath the victim’s nails. Definitely came from one of his attackers. It didn’t match Gregor’s DNA, so that just leaves…”  
“Me? Is this supposed to be scaring me, Mr Lannister? I have an _immunity_ deal.” Ramsay smirked smugly; fixing Tyrion with his cold, chilling stare.  
“Yes, you do. You cannot be prosecuted for any crimes committed, quote, in consort with, unquote, Gregor Clegane. The thing is, Gregor Clegane broke three vertebrae in his back on September 15th 2009\. That’s why he couldn’t be a plumber anymore and that’s why he wore a back brace. He was in hospital for three weeks. In contraction the entire time. Do you remember the date Edric’s body was found?”  
Ramsay looked away and refused to meet his gaze. He unhooked his arms from around the back of the bench and leant forward. Slowly, his right knee began to shake.  
“October 9th.” Tyrion answered for him. “It would have been difficult for him to abduct a young boy who screams like a girl when you’re feeling well. In a hospital bed, I would say it was impossible.” Tyrion never took his eyes off of Ramsay. The youth had slumped over slightly, making Tyrion feel like the king of the world.  
Ramsay shrugged. “I have an immunity deal.” He said, nodding. Reassuring himself.  
“For crimes committed _in consort with_ Gregor Clegane. But you took Edric Storm on your own. You got bored waiting for your pet to come back from the vets, didn’t you?” Ramsay glared at him murderously. “You know what, don’t tell me. Tell _them_.” Tyrion inclined his head towards his brother who was just climbing out of the nearest police car.   
“Are those for me?” Ramsay asked calmly. Tyrion nodded. “I called them right after your father told me you were in the park.”  
Ramsay looked around; counting each car and weighing the likelihood of his escape.   
“Go on. Run. It’s not like I can catch you. But then again, fair fights aren’t really your speed are they?” Tyrion pursed his lips in mock disappointment before standing up and heading towards his brother.  
“It was only one murder!” Ramsay called, making Tyrion stop in his tracks. “And Gregor abused me.” The boy stood up and moved over to Tyrion. He leaned down and smirked. “I’ll be out soon.” He promised.  
Ramsay Bolton continued to impress Tyrion until the very end. After he made his promise, he cocked his head, smiled, and walked straight over to Jaime; holding his hands out for the cuffs.  
“I think that boy is going to rather like prison.” Tyrion muttered to himself.

Sansa marched around the room with a step to rival Tyrion’s when he was on a mission or had a lead. Once again, he was sat on the floor surrounded by files and documents; rifling through them all like a child on Christmas day.  
Sansa started to slam the curtains shut.  
“What are you doing?” Tyrion gasped as the light was sucked from the room; making it impossible to read the files. Sansa turned away from the last window and smiled brightly. “Depriving you of all stimuli’s. It’s time you got some sleep.” She marched back past him into the kitchen; leaping over the papers.  
“What? No…no. No! Right after you’ve solved a case you’ve got a boost, you need to use it. We need to keep working!” He called after her. Sansa shook her head and smiled at the sound of his childishness.  
“We?” She called back. Even from the kitchen, she could hear Tyrion groan. “Yes. You. Me. _We_.”  
Picking up the mug, she went back into the lounge. “I’m full of energy and momentum! I need to channel it!” He cried.  
“Are you begging me?”  
“No…well, maybe a little…”  
Sansa held out the mug. “Drink.” She ordered. Tyrion glanced at the mug and breathed in deeply. “Camomile tea.” He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like Camomile tea.” Sansa rolled her eyes and turned away, heading back to the kitchen once more.  
“Fine, but you are going to sleep. You’ve laid the case to rest, no do the same for…” The sight of Tyrion; leaning against the armchair with his head lolled back and mouth open ungracefully made her smile. Turning away, Sansa left him there. She couldn’t help but hope that when he woke up, he’d find another case for them to solve.


End file.
